


The Poet's Darling

by shipwreckblue



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A Story Told Nonsequentially, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autistic Jon Sims, Depiction of Sensory Overload & Meltdown, If anyone thinks this needs other tags please suggest them, M/M, Post-breakup, Pre-Slash, Re-imagining of various S1 events, Trans Male Character, kind of, trans characters plural, we have it all folks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 17:50:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18266384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwreckblue/pseuds/shipwreckblue
Summary: He does fine for a while, for almost a week, until he starts explaining the current state of affairs into the tape recorder. “I’ve managed to secure the services of two researchers to assist me,” he says; then the anger, the overwhelm and the unfairness swells up in him again. “Well, technically three,” he continues, with a tiny, vindictive thrill, “but I don’t count Martin, as he’s unlikely to contribute anything but delays.”An attempt at answering the question: What if the reason Jon was such a massive prick to Martin for their first few months in the Archives is that they used to date?





	The Poet's Darling

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a real great [post](https://lostjonscave.tumblr.com/post/183306738471/protectmartinblackwood-somuchbetterthanthat) on tumblr. Why the flower themes, do you ask? Sometimes when you can't say it any other way you gotta say it with flowers. Warning for one mention of the r-slur in this chapter, although it's directed towards an inanimate object. This could probably be edited more but it's almost 5:30 AM and I'm set on posting now.
> 
> Reading experience may be enhanced by listening to [The Feeling Again by Brendan Maclean.](https://brendanmaclean.bandcamp.com/track/the-feeling-again-featuring-sarah-belkner)
> 
> here comes the feeling again / it's the one from before / and it's reeling me in

-:- _part 1: petunia; anger, resentment_ -:-

 

Jon shuts the door of Elias’ office behind him with careful composure. He strides several paces down the hall, tension bunching up between his shoulders as he moves, then clenches his fists and kicks the wall, swearing violently under his breath. Then again- _“Shit,”_ -as he spots the dirty black scuff mark the sole of his shoe has left on the otherwise pristine paint. Glancing up and down the hallway, he checks if anyone was around to notice, but luckily it’s the tail end of the lunch hour, and the hall is devoid of other occupants. Before he can be placed near the scene of the crime, Jon rounds the corner quickly and ends up ducking into a nook that leads to a hall bathroom. A split-second decision and he enters, making a beeline straight to one of the sinks. The water is hot over his hands.

For a moment, he just stands there, watching the water rush from the tap and across his knuckles, trying to slow his heartbeat. Gradually, it works; he takes a careful, measured breath, and reaches for the soap dispenser. He washes his hands, cleaning carefully under each of the nails. After shaking them dry, Jon presses his warm, damp palms over his eyes for a moment, shutting out the harsh fluorescents. “Okay,” he says, softly, and the hum of his voice in his chest is comforting. “Okay. This is… This is manageable.”

“Oi,” says a voice from the stall behind him. “This is the ladies’ toilet.”

“What?” Jon responds automatically, even before the stab of alarm shoots back through his body tenfold. 

“I said it’s the ladies’ toilet, mate, you dim? Go on, clear out.” The pair of heels beneath the stall door click insistently, and Jon is leaving before the woman can open it. It takes him until he gets out in the hall again to realize he has a hand over his chest, as if that would- As if that _meant_ anything. As if he hadn’t, distressed and instinctual, ducked into the women’s toilets with the men’s the next door over, like some kind of _subconscious-_  

“Or, you’re just distracted, and for bloody good reason,” Jon snaps at himself, and ignores the suspicious side-eye of the man who just breezed past him, clearly having overheard. It’s not like he knows the man. It’s not like people at the Institute don’t talk behind his back already, anyway, he’s not stupid. And he’s also not putting up with any more of this shit luck today. Jon takes off more purposefully in the direction of the research department, grinding his teeth.

Martin’s new desk, traded with Tim’s, has a bulky shelf and a good several meters between itself and Jon’s. However it’s still too easy to spot Martin from the archway, towering even as he tries to hunch. Luckily the rest of the desks are almost empty. Jon marches right over to him, weaving through aisles and digging his nails into his palms. “Is this supposed to be some kind of a _joke?”_ he hisses, crowding Martin back against his new buffer shelf. There is a nasty, satisfied twinge inside him as the taller man tries to shrink away before composing himself. 

Martin sets down a cup of pens and paper clips. “I- Sorry, I don’t know what you mean,” he starts primly, straightening the front of his shirt.

Jon cuts him off, hoarse with the effort of not shouting. “The _Archives_ , Martin, for Christ’s sake.”

Immediately, cringing, Martin puts his thumbnail in his mouth, and Jon is nearly blinded with the urge to yank his wrist back down and shake him by his collar. With great effort, he does neither. “All right, so Elias must have told you,” Martin observes, with an attempt at a diplomatic tone. “He said it was- Well, you _know_ how he is, I couldn’t exactly say no."

“Oh, you couldn’t, could you?” growls Jon.

“You know what I mean!” Martin’s brows knit, and he lowers his voice now too. “We never told anyone we were _together,_ I couldn’t right well go, ‘Oh, so sorry Elias, but I'm afraid this won't work out, you see, you’ve just placed me under the direct employ of my _ex-boyfrien-’”_

“Shut up,” Jon barks.

“My ex-boyfriend of _four bloody days,”_ Martin continues on doggedly, even as he eyes Sasha from the other corner of the research office, pretending not to watch them. “And I hadn’t much of an excuse prepared, given I didn’t expect him to offer me the job! You know it’s a promotion just to be an archival _assistant?_ It’s a real bump in the pay grade, for whatever reason, and I’m not exactly famous for my efficiency-”

Jon interrupts again through a clenched jaw. “I don’t _care_ , Martin, I could give a damn why he offered you the job, why in the hell did you  _take_ it?” 

Martin has his hands half-raised in either defense or placation. “Well it pays better, for one, but- See, Elias wants three researchers on the team. Hannah wants to keep her hours here, and apparently, no one else in the department is, ah, technically cut out for it.” He smiles, nervous and reflexive, just a flash before it’s gone. 

Another flare of anger sets alight in Jon's chest. “I see. Of course, that’s perfect, just throw a little empty praise at you and you’ll-” _Roll over,_ he thinks, but stops himself, pinching the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses. “All right, no, that was uncalled for. You know what, if I can’t contest this or find a replacement, it’s- We’ll work around it.” He grimaces. “That is already what we agreed to do.”

Looking miserable, Martin heaves a sigh. “I- Yeah, I thought- Look, I don’t want to make this any harder, Jon.” 

“Well you could act like it.”

Martin’s jaw drops, offended. “I am! I argued, okay?! But there’s only so much- This is a workplace, we can’t just expect everyone to be accommodating of our, our _issues,_ that’s why some places have _policies_ against this sort of thing, to avoid-”

“Complications. Yes, I know.” Jon sighs as well. He has a feeling Martin may have used the word ‘policies’ specifically to target his sensibility, and grudgingly he must admit it has worked. He’s still upset, but it’s a dull dejection gripping him now, rather than simmering fury.

“Right, so… Could we just… Not make it any more complicated?” Martin’s voice is tense, imploring. “I won’t let it affect my work or anything, we can just be very civil…”

Eye contact was easier with Martin, or it used to be. Jon watches him wring his hands instead. “Yes, all right,” he says eventually.  We’ll keep things strictly… Strictly professional. As agreed.”

“Okay. I don’t want to make a bigger deal out of it, anyway, as it is people are probably going to talk, so-”

 Jon snorts. “They always talk.”

Martin adopts the type of awkward, pitying look that generally precludes him treating Jon like a twelve-year-old with low self-esteem for the next several hours, and Jon takes a step back, recoiling. _Professional,_ he reminds himself with a sharp nod. “Well then, that’s sorted. I’ll, ah, leave you to it.” _It_ appears to be organizing his new desk, which he’s going to be moving again within the week, apparently, if there’s nothing Jon can do about it.

“Righto,” says Martin, with obvious discomfort. He watches Jon walk off; Jon doesn’t turn, but he can feel Martin’s eyes on his back.

He waits until he’s gotten all the way back to his desk, cutting off the view of both Martin and Sasha entirely behind the hulking shelf, and then shakes out both of his hands with great vigor while he takes a deep breath. The motion is good; the sound they make through the air next to his ears is less so, but that’s just because it’s quiet. It’s always quiet; the research department is located at the back of the library. Jon wishes distantly that he had an office like Elias, with a little white noise machine often humming near the door. He knows it’s only there to put off any eavesdroppers from listening in on whatever important business running the Institute might encompass, but it’s also just… Better, than the irritable drone of the overhead lights and nothing else.

It occurs to Jon that in a week he’s going to be setting up his brand new individual office as the Head Archivist, and he very well might be able to request some sort of background noise setup. Of course, it might be harder to justify the Archives’ need for privacy, but he could ask. It’s really the least Elias could do to make up for shunting Martin onto his research team. Although Jon is aware that there’s no way Elias could have possibly known they’d just split up, or that they were even dating in the first place, there was such a palpable aura of smugness around him when he’d delivered the news that Jon couldn’t help but feel he _had_ to know, somehow. This couldn’t all just be happening to him on coincidence.

Jon makes himself stop rocking, sit down and still his hands before any of the other researchers start to file back in. He takes up a pen and starts to chew on one end of it lightly instead while he opens his laptop. _This is nobody’s fault,_ he reminds himself sternly, pulling up an email from Elias confirming some logistics of the next week’s transition. _And it’s definitely manageable. All you need to do is act civil, be professional, and don’t let trivial feelings get in the way._  

He does fine for a while, for the first five or so days, even if he doesn't get his white noise machine- Too much potential for audio interference. He stays civil and collected up until he starts explaining the current state of affairs into the tape recorder. “I’ve managed to secure the services of two researchers to assist me,” he says; then the anger, the overwhelm and the unfairness swells up in him again. “Well, technically three,” he continues, with a tiny, vindictive thrill, “but I don’t count Martin, as he’s unlikely to contribute anything but delays.”

 

-:- _part 2: forsythia; anticipation_ -:-

 

The way they started seeing each other felt almost accidental.

Martin’s cheerful presence at his desk as soon as the lunch hour rolled around had become such an integrated part of his routine that the day he failed to show up, Jon didn’t realize until he was halfway through packing up his things. And why, he considered, was he packing them up if Martin wasn’t in today? He’d just be eating at his desk- whatever he had thrown in his bag on an impulse, usually just nuts and crackers -like he always did before… Well, before Martin had started inviting him out. Even the canteen would seem odd, now, alone. There was nowhere to go.

The next day Martin is back at work, looking bright-eyed, if perhaps a little peaky. Jon gave him a nod when he came in, the same as normal, but for the next three hours could not shake the crawling sensation that wasn’t enough _._ And so a whole five minutes before the lunch break is officially supposed to start, he finds himself standing in front of _Martin’s_ desk, something he’s never done before.

“Hey, Jon,” Martin says, looking up with mild surprise. “You, er, need something?”

“No,” Jon replies, and then, after an awkward pause, “You were out yesterday.” 

Martin blinks. “I... Yeah, I was under the weather a bit.”

And that was right; Martin had developed a cough, recently, hadn’t he? Jon had given him a couple of tissues from his bag and two half-wrapped lozenges on Monday. _Without thinking about it,_ even. “Ah,” Jon says, and then, belatedly: “You’re better, then?”

Martin nods with a tentative smile. “I’m on the tail of it, I think, yes. No more fever and all.”

There is a pause while Jon tries to find the proper way to acknowledge this besides, “Good.” He fails, and there is a longer stretch of crawling silence. Finally, at the same time, they each try to say: 

“So we’re going-”

“I take it you’re-”

-and then look away, Jon shuffling, Martin clearing his throat. 

Painstaking, Martin tries again. “Er- Sorry, did you want something, though?”

“No, I didn’t,” Jon says, mildly annoyed. “It’s just lunchtime, is all.”

 Martin blinks again, rather like a startled owl. “Oh- you’re waiting for me? B- You don’t have your bag.”

Jon shifts his weight uncomfortably. “Well, I had to see if you _wanted_ to. Go out, that is.”

For a moment, Martin looks temporarily stunned, and then as if he’s deliberating something. Jon can tell because, as he suddenly understands, he might actually rather like to watch Martin’s face, and he’s been doing it for quite a while.

 _Well,_ he thinks, _there isn’t time to unpack all that._ He gives Martin a few more seconds, in which the man only manages to open his mouth and sit there,  then folds his arms impatiently to cover his inexplicable nerves. “ _Did_ you want to? Because-”

Martin interrupts him. “How about dinner?”

This time Jon is the one who has trouble computing. “What?”

Turning bright pink, Martin stands up and begins bustling about collecting his coat and wallet, clearly playing off his own agitation. “How about dinner, would you- Would you have dinner with me? Tonight? Or some other evening, I don’t have- I’ve got a pretty flexible schedule this week, I mean- Yeah, I still want to go have lunch, but, you know, afterwards. Dinner?” 

“I- Hang on,” Jon says, waits until Martin is still, and looking at him- and blushing, although that isn’t _evidence_ of anything in particular, Jon asserts severely. He fusses with his own hands for comfort, and one of his knuckles cracks. “Sorry, I- So It’s fine, if you’re not, but I really need to be clear on this sort of thing. Are you asking me out?” 

Biting his lip, Martin shuts his eyes briefly, then says with a surprising decisiveness, “Yes, I am- I am expressing direct romantic interest in you, Jon Sims.”

Jon becomes conscious that he was holding his breath, and lets it out. “Okay,” he says, and then quickly at Martin’s stricken expression, “That’s, that’s fine then, all right, I just, wanted to be sure.”

“Wait so, that’s a yes? On dinner?” Martin sounds as if he’s hardly daring to hope. 

Jon examines the hem of his sweater for a moment, because he can't afford to think too hard about what is currently happening. “Hm? Oh… Yes, I think, although, how about- Let’s focus on lunch first, I’d rather- Things were off, yesterday.” He chances a look at Martin’s face again, and finds him beaming.

“Sorry to hear it,” Martin says, even though he seems anything but; flooded with excitement, maybe, or even a bit of relief.

“Well it wasn’t your fault for being ill,” Jon mutters, and then, needing a moment to process, “Let me just-”

“Yeah, go get your bag,” says Martin, and the amount of fondness he manages to sink into those words is enough to make Jon's pulse skip a beat. “I was thinking maybe the pad thai place on the corner?”

“Er, sure, that sounds good,” Jon calls over his shoulder. And it does.

 

-:- _part 3: marigold; jealousy, cruelty, secret affection_ -:-

 

The Head Archivist position proves to be difficult. Nigh on impossible actually, given that Jon only has a vague idea of what the hell he’s supposed to be _doing_ down here. He’s never tried any type of real archival work before, and barely knows how to employ his own time, let alone direct his assistants. That grates on him because he hates feeling helpless, but even more so because his lack of archiving experience happened to be Martin’s parting shot on the evening of their disastrous row. Loathe to prove himself incompetent in the ever-present face of that condescension, Jon finds an increasing amount of his time is spent bluffing, something he has never been particularly good at. To soothe his frustration he leans hard into Martin’s own mistakes, and employs his usual strategy for self-defense: Dig his heels in at the expense of any rational discussion, and behave as if he’s far too smart and important to be bothered with problems he has no genuine clue how to fix.

It’s not as if he isn’t self-aware. It’s hard not to be. But if he shows a single flash of real weakness, people will lose their respect for his competence, which is more or less all he has going for him. Everyone already thinks he’s a bit of a pretentious ass, and they’re hardly even wrong.

Or, well, Sasha is nice to him. She usually twirls a pen while she’s talking, and it gives him something to focus on that isn’t her face, makes it much easier to pay attention. Sasha is an easy listener, and a diplomatic conversationalist. It’s Sasha, too, who sets him on the idea of investigating those statements which behave oddly on digital capture. She buries her head in police reports the afternoon that Jon tries recording case 0122204 and his laptop shuts down of its own accord four consecutive times. He reasons it’s as good a task to set his assistants on as any, since his initial plan to try and even slightly modernize the archives seems to be in the process of blowing up in his face. At least it will feel like they’re all _accomplishing_ something, even if the actual something has largely nothing to do with organizing the surrounding mess.

Tim is also nice to him, or, well, _helpful,_ even if he’s also a bit awkward around Jon’s general moodiness. It’s… interesting, having Tim as a technical subordinate. He’s capable, resourceful, and also happens to fit the exact archetype of person who used to talk right over Jon at university. Jon also thinks Tim’s sense of humor is very hit-or-miss, which causes some understandable strain, since bad wisecracks are clearly one of the cornerstones of his personality. But Tim doesn’t talk over him, and he has an open, relaxing attitude, even if his ribbing is a little over-familiar at times. Jon likes him, and he likes Sasha, and he has absolutely no idea how to convey this comfortably- save, well, offering them the jobs they currently hold and trying not to be a complete prat around them.

On the other hand Jon would have gladly taken Hannah over Martin, even though she’d once called a filing cabinet “retarded” in front of him. Martin, with his trill of a laugh that cuts through the silence of the Archives like a throwing knife. Martin and his messy curls, Martin and his chewed-up fingernails, Martin with the splash of freckles on his collarbone and the name Jon has whispered against his skin in the quiet of the early morning. It is unbearable.

He’d expected things might be weird if they ever touched- Brushing fingers while passing over a file, squeezing past one another in the tight file rows of the Archives, that sort of thing. Yet to Jon’s horror, the real adjustment is _not_ touching Martin. He finds himself quashing urges to brush the fringe out of Martin’s eyes, fix his collar, take his hand and squeeze it when he fidgets. Once, following a heated but admittedly paltry argument over Martin rescuing an intrusive spider, Jon even leaned in halfway to kiss him. He was only stopped by the dizzy lurch in his gut when he realized how close they were. All in all, the very worst part is that through everything Jon remains categorically _furious_ with Martin; his constant presence makes an already daunting job even more difficult than necessary. Any memory of having ever _been_ with him is humiliating, and does nothing but stoke Jon’s resentment. It is the worst kind of distraction.

Whenever he gets the chance, Jon sends him out on little reconnaissance missions, just to avoid looking at his stupid, cherubic face.

 

-:-   _part 4: sweet pea; departure_ -:-

 

They split up on a Friday, over a mediocre dinner at Jon’s flat. It is the evening after Elias makes him the offer.

“Are you saying you don’t _want_ me to have the job?” Jon demands, incredulous, nearly knocking over his fork with a gesture.

Martin sighs and sets down his own utensils. “ _No_ , it’s not that, I just- Are you sure you’re up to it? You’ve been really stressed, lately, and I don’t see a sudden new load of work improving-”

“Oh, of course. Can’t just stay out of it, or be supportive, back me up, _no,_ this is all because you’re concerned about me, naturally.”

“Well first of all I _am._ ” Martin folds his arms with a huff. “But really, Jon, you’ve got a lot of nerve accusing _me_ of being unsupportive."

Jon pauses, raising an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“Ugh, never mind.” Martin scowls down at his ravioli. “It’s not worth it."

“Oh, please enlighten me. I insist.”

This time Martin turns the scowl on him. “You don’t have to be such a prick.”

“Well if you didn’t force my hand,” is out of Jon’s mouth before he can fully recognize the words. He regrets them in an instant, because they’ve officially made this a proper fight; Martin looks as if he’d gotten up, rounded the table and slapped him. “You know, I don’t have to sit here through this,” he snaps, tossing his napkin onto the table. “If you’re about to throw a tantrum I’ll just go home.”

There it is: that dangerous blaze of anger that shoots up his spine. “Oh, get _bent!_ As if you’re standing on the high ground,” says Jon, much louder than he’d intended, and now he’s doubly upset, because if Martin is going to call him childish, the least he could bloody do is not prove him right. “As if you can claim _righteousness_ , just because you always back away from an argument. You’re full of it. You only hate being called out!”

“I don’t like arguing because it never _helps_ anything,” hisses Martin, starting to clear his barely touched plate of food, but Jon stands as well and tosses out a hand. “Oh, no, no, you can leave that, thanks.”

Martin gives him a disdainful look. “Are you really that petty?”

Jon sneers back. “I recall you were on your way out.”

“Fine, if you’re going to act so bloody impossible!” Martin’s shoulders jerk up in defense and he stamps towards the living area to get his coat. For some repugnant, destructive reason, Jon follows him. “Given I’m such a shit partner, I don’t know what the hell you were ever doing here in the first place!” 

“I didn’t say you were a shit partner!” Martin squawks, rounding back on him.

“You _did_ , though.”

Martin folds his arms tight, as if trying to contain himself. “You know, you’re actually lovely when you do really talk to me, and when you _listen,_ but most of the time you’re just barely there! I mean I work with you, I come home with you half the time, and still it’s like-” he lets out a huff.  “You’re just- Just somewhere else, and I’m part of the background. I’m getting pretty sick of it, Jon, and I think I’m allowed to be!”

“All right,” Jon says, and the outrage pulses again, this time stabbing through his chest and behind his eyes. “All right, then leave,” he spits. “I mean _really_ leave. Clearly I'm never going to make you happy, Martin, so get out while you still can.”

Martin wobbles, as if knocked him off balance. “What?”

Jon rolls his eyes. “You must have realized. This is just-” He spreads his arms disparagingly. “Sorry, but this is all you’re going to get! Go find something better if you’re that bloody miserable.”

“I don’t- I _don’t_ want that,” says Martin through gritted teeth, uncurling his hands from fists and wiping the sweat on his trouser legs.

“Yes you do.” Jon snarls. “I don’t know what your fascination was with me at first, but admit it, things have worn off and now you’ve discovered I'm not going to kneel down and thank you for the _charity_ of being romanced. And barring that, I’m really _not_ worth it, am I?”

Martin expression goes nearly blank at that, save for the tears welling up in his eyes. He swallows. “I… Jon, do you actually resent me that much?”

“For Christ’s sake, Martin, that’s the- It’s not _about_ you! It was never about you.” He has to halt, for a moment, as another burst of hellish, sick upset overtakes him like a wave. There is a ravenous instinct in his head goading him to _hurt, hurt, hurt._ His lip curls. “If you feel like part of the backdrop it's probably because you really are just that boring." 

A single tear spills over down Martin’s cheek. His mouth hangs open for a second, a perfect oval. Jon realizes that he looks quite beautiful, in a renaissance painting sort of way, and he feels nauseous.

“... Okay,” Martin says finally, his voice steady, bitingly cheerful, ignoring the tears on his face as he snatches his coat from the couch. “Okay. We’ll do it your way, then! See, I tried to leave before we could get into something like this, but _you_ had to pitch a fit-”

“Would you _stop_ treating me like a child!” Now Jon really is shouting, a sound that throbs in his own ears as it echoes around his flat. “No wonder, if I can’t stand being around you! You’re so bloody judgemental! Something good happened to me, and all you can do is be jealous!”

Martin tugs his coat on, storms over to the door, and yanks it open. “Ha!” He barks out a laugh. “You know why that’s rich, Jon? You don’t even have a degree in _fucking_ information science!”

And for some reason, this bristles Jon more than anything else possibly could have. He hustles over to the threshold. “Well your cooking is so bad you ought to cut out the middleman and _eat shit!_ ” he hollers, and slams the door so hard that the frame rattles. The upstairs neighbor bangs on the ceiling indignantly and the pounding rams into his skull, judders down his spine. Jon whirls around, ready to shout something up at them as well, but then he realizes he’s just going to scream if he tries, raw like a wounded animal and oh, Christ, he hasn’t had a real meltdown in _months,_ but suddenly it’s right on top of him. The room is practically swimming; he hadn’t realized how much the lights were bothering him, needling into his eyes, and the electric whine- the energy inside is going to rip him apart if it stays, it has to _go somewhere-_  

For a minute Jon is frozen there, too much information flooding him from all angles, and then something snaps. Without conscious thought, one hand swings out and he lands himself a merciless strike upside the head, palm open, so hard it knocks his glasses sideways. It hurts, but in a way that drowns out almost every other sensation assaulting him, and anyway, he must _deserve_ this after how he’s acted, how badly he’s lost control. He does it again. Again, over and over, working up to such force that the last blow gives him a ripple of vertigo, and his knees buckle. He crumples abruptly to the ground with his back against the door, eyes watering, gasping for breath.

The pain is a woozy, resounding ache, but at least it has dulled down that jagged scream in his chest, the panicked ferocity tearing to get out. It will creep back to him soon, though, and he can’t carry on like this. He takes his crooked glasses off with unsteady hands, dropping them into one of his shoes by the door where he'll find them later. Gritting his teeth, Jon forces himself to stand up and drag his feet stiffly to the bathroom. All of his limbs have gone rigid with tension, and it is slow going, but he makes it. Leaving the lights off, he starts the shower too cold and climbs in fully dressed. The freezing water is enough of a shock to sap the fight out of his body, leaving nothing but dread and tingling exhaustion.

It’s always the worst when this happens alone, and more often than not these days, it does. Martin has never seen him like this.

 _Now he won’t ever have to,_ his frazzled mind supplies helpfully, and Jon feels another swelling twist in his belly. He jerks the handle of the shower to the hottest setting and hisses when it scalds his shoulders.

After what feels like a lifetime, he is able to strip out of his soaked clothes and wash himself methodically, dragging the cloth rough across his chest and shoulders until his mind is no longer humming with self-disgust, no longer doing anything but going through the motions. Eventually he makes it into bed, puts on the audio of Norse myths that he listens to every night and tries to sleep. When it hasn’t worked sometime around a bleary one AM, he snatches up his phone and sends Martin a two-word text: _I’m sorry._

To his shock, the response comes in only two minutes later: _Are you?_

Something in his chest gives a dangerous spasm, but Jon is well and truly out of steam for the night. He narrows his eyes at the dim screen. _No,_ he replies, and then shuts his phone off entirely. If he puts his arms around a pillow in order to finally drift off at four in the morning, it is with a choking lump of shame in the back of his sore throat.

 

-:- _part 5: monkshood; be cautious for a deadly foe is near_ -:-

 

Jon doesn’t think much of it when Martin calls in sick. At the most, he is vaguely relieved, and his focus at work is renewed with the absence of all that unwanted tension. The longer Martin stays away, the more firmly Jon resolves to keep him out of his mind, even though he knows Martin is generally quite hardy, and the last time he called in sick was right before they started going out, and almost two weeks is really quite a long stretch to be held down by a stomach bug. Jon doesn’t think about it. He is determined, and he is perfunctory, and he is productive. At least, he is right up until Martin bursts into his office, sweaty and panting, to unceremoniously dump a plastic bag of dead worms on Jon’s desk.

Martin says very little at first, mostly because he is breathing too hard to do otherwise, but there is the triumphant glint of _I told you so_ in his eyes. “They’re real,” he rasps, swiping across his face with the sleeve of his damp jumper. “They’re real, Jon. You can’t argue that.”

Jon cannot. He sends Martin to the bathroom to clean up, mostly to give himself a moment to suss out what the hell he’s supposed to do with these worms, because there is no particular _policy_ on this. He decides he ought to call up to Artifacts Storage and see what they recommend first off, but before he can dial, Martin is back and resolutely insisting to make a statement.

“I don’t- I don’t know if that’s _necessary,_ ” he starts, because the things in these statements, well. If they’re true at all, they’re true in a peripheral sense, like a tragedy happening in another country. They are dangerous in the way that polio is dangerous to a vaccinated person; horrifying in theory, but unable to strike that close to home. At least that was the blanket assumption Jon had been operating under, and he is loathe to crawl out from beneath the safety of it. He barely wants to look at Martin, let alone sit down and hear him talk for an hour about why he’s just run miles to fling a bag of dead insects at his ex- At his boss. 

Martin, however, proves himself unshakeable. “It _is_ necessary,” he says, spine straight. “It’s necessary to _me_ , okay? Don’t you-” he pauses, looks Jon in the eye until he’s forced to turn away. “Don’t you think I’m owed at least that much?”

Jon does not answer, but he slots a new tape in the recorder anyway, and Martin sits down with a gust of a sigh.

Immediately, from the first click of the recorder, Jon can tell this is going to be especially exhausting. He makes one last halfhearted attempt to talk Martin out of it, but it’s clearly a waste of time. Resigning himself, Jon simply sits and listens. He holds himself in and he listens, right up until Martin mentions the phone.

“I just wanted to take a picture of the thing,” he says, forehead creased, his hands in two tight balls atop his knees. “To prove to _you_ that it happened. You’re always so quick to dismiss these statements, and I wanted proof for you.” He gives a small, disparaging jerk of his head. “Except, I managed to drop it, of course.”

Jon’s whole body goes cold, and as Martin continues the chill only strengthens, radiating out from the pit of his stomach. An odd pressure starts to build at the base of his skull. He hears the rest of Martin’s statement as if he is speaking to him through a door, distant and fuzzy, buffeted by waves of unease. _This is all because of you,_ he thinks, and his own voice in his head nearly drowns out Martin sitting in front of him. _You sent him out because you’re hateful, and this man nearly died. If he hadn’t escaped you might never have even known._

 Martin, he realizes, is finished talking. “Statement ends,” Jon says, purely out of reflex, and then, “You- You’re sure about this, Martin?”

Martin pulls a weary face. “Look, I’m not going to lie to you about something like this, Jon,” he says. “I… like my job.” He shoots a glance across the desk that is distinctly sour. “Most of the time.”

“Right,” Jon says, and then plows ahead before he can overthink his decision. “In that case, you ought to stop somewhere and find yourself a toothbrush. Obviously your flat is out of the question, so you can stay at mine for now. It may not be hermetically sealed, but if Prentiss tries to cut the power there she’ll have to do it for the whole building, which will draw plenty of attention. And I have the fire escape- she can’t come at us from _both_ exits, not with the same amount of force.” 

Martin is staring at him with a stark disbelief that is almost insulting. “I… Really? You’re sure?”

Jon can’t help but hunch in on himself, annoyed, but only on the surface of something much deeper than he cares to try and explore. “Good lord, Martin, yes, I’m not- Yes. Maybe there’s- Maybe there’s still some clothes,” he mutters, squirming a bit in his chair with discomfort, but committed now. “Somewhere. Back of the closet.” 

Martin straightens up, flustered. “Well th- That’s not what I meant, I just- Honestly, I didn’t expect you to ah, take me very seriously.”

Jon narrows his eyes, pushes the rest of his thoughts down. “You say you lost your phone two weeks ago?” 

“Thereabouts.” Martin nods, quizzical. “When I went back to the basement.” 

Jon returns his nod. “Throughout that time I’ve received several text messages sent from your phone explaining your absence away with talk of ‘stomach problems.’ Which, well, it sounded like you, if you were disastrously indisposed, anyway.” He wills the defensiveness out of his voice. “I tried to call, but you never- Well, no one picked up. The last message said you thought it ‘might be a parasite,’ which, given this new context you’ve provided, is decidedly _not_ amusing-” As if summoned, Jon’s phone suddenly buzzes from his pocket. “Hang on.”

“What?” Martin leans forward.

Jon resists the urge to scoot his chair back, and then his next impulse to lean in even closer. “I just got a text message.” He pulls his phone out to read it, although it’s not a tough guess what the message contains. “Ah. It’s from you…” He has to squint to read it. “ _Take him back for now. We have had our fun. He will want to see it when the Archivist’s crimson fate arrives_.” 

“What… does that mean?” Martin asks, and Jon can hear the urgency climbing in his voice. “You have a _crimson fate_ on the way? Christ, Jon!” 

“Maybe it’s been held up in customs,” Jon says without thinking, and when Martin laughs it is bleak, but it is a laugh nonetheless. Something inside him uncoils slightly. “At any rate, I’ll be asking Elias to hire more security. I’ll update Sasha and Tim as well, set them on the lookout for any more of… these.” He shoots a distasteful glance towards the bag of worms still sitting on the desk. “And I’ll comb the Archives; if I’m not mistaken there should be a statement from Ms. Prentiss herself around here somewhere.” After a moment, Jon realizes the tape is still running. “Recording ends,” he says, and switches it off. 

Martin is watching him with an expression Jon can’t quite read. “So,” he says. “Er. You’re sure, a-about putting me up?”

Jon pushes his glasses up and pinches the bridge of his nose, partly because he does have a headache now, but also so he doesn’t have to make eye contact. “Yes, of course I’m sure, I’m not about to force you to find a motel and the only other option would be to… Well, put you up in the back room of the Archives.” He pauses. “I mean, now that I think about it, there is a folding cot in there, and it is very well sealed..." Finally looking at Martin, Jon raises an eyebrow, offering a wordless exit strategy should Martin choose to pursue it. Half of him hopes that Martin will.

But no, he is shaking his head, hands out in polite refusal. “That’s- Not a bad point, but if you really don’t mind, I think I’d rather stay somewhere with a shower. I-If that’s all right.” 

Jon nods, schools himself as carefully as he can into the Archivist, Martin’s boss, a man entirely indifferent to the concept of emotions beyond vague impatience. “I quite understand. I think the rest of the team will also be grateful on that account.”

“Oh. I suppose they would.” With a tepid chuckle, Martin moves to stand. “I’ll just, ah. Think I’ll go clean up a bit more.” He rubs the back of his neck and grimaces. “Maybe I can find an extra shirt around somewhere…” 

“Probably,” Jon mumbles, trying to find a distraction in examining the bag of worms still sat on his desk.

“Listen,” says Martin, a light note of strain in his voice, and Jon wants to crawl under the desk. He says, “Jon, thank you. For hearing me out, a-and for such a generous-”

“Don’t.” Jon waves a hand at the door. “Don’t mention it. It’s fine. Just go.”

 Martin wavers for a second, and then heaves another sigh. “I- Okay. All right. Just- Thanks.” 

“Go on.”

Martin does. Jon remains in the same seated position for the next fifteen minutes, chewing on one of his pens until it well and truly breaks, spurting ink from the crack. For the rest of the day, he cannot manage to wash the bitter taste from his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. This fic has been my baby for the better part of a month and I can assure you the next installment is actually on the way posthaste _(@ fans of Spring Fever I'm sorry I had to do this first)!_
> 
> As a separate footnote, the meltdown Jon experiences in part 4 is personally informed and not at all a universal representation of what a meltdown, shutdown, or sensory overload can look like. I took particular attention with this scene to represent the experience with care and empirical accuracy. 
> 
> Please come talk to me on [tumblr](https://lostjonscave.tumblr.com/) or leave some feedback if y'all enjoyed it! I still have plenty to say on this subject, let me tell you.


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